


Fallout

by Jersey



Series: Gone Native [5]
Category: Ironman, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: Amnesia, Battle of New York, Gen, Mind Control, Mutiny, archaeopteryx, captain nemo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark has been living under the false name and identity of Scout Harrow upon Captain Nemo's fantastic airship. Now, he knows the truth, that everything he has fought for and stood for under the flag of Nemo has been a lie. He has come home to New York, fleeing for his life. But his captors aren't going to just let him go without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallout

**FALLOUT**

The response is nearly instantaneous, thanks entirely to Jarvis. Stark Tower has its own medical sciences division, complete with research and EMS teams training in superhero-response – an addition warranted by the Battle of New York. A competent and utterly composed emergency team is in the penthouse in no time flat, tending to Tony and the young stranger swiftly an expertly. In fact, their response time is so impressive that Pepper almost thinks Happy would give them raises – if the bodyguard weren’t still attempting quite desperately to convince the CEO to replace almost half the human personnel of Stark Industries with machines.

Pepper herself _cannot_ react; she simply does not know how to react. The woman stares stupidly as the EMTs work, chewing on her nail as she does. It is too much to take in and process with any rational thought. The only thing the businesswoman can think of is the astounding irony of it all, considering this is now the third time Tony has come back from the dead.

The response time of the EMTs is almost matched by Bruce’s. He is at her side within seconds of their arrival, likely also summoned by Jarvis. Pepper is grateful to him, to his steady and easy reassurance, but both know the woman will never dare utter such forbidden words.

There is no SHIELD to respond, not since the incidents on the Potomac, but the City of New York is quick to cordon off the area surrounding Stark Tower, issuing and enforcing a mandatory lockdown. It is unnecessary. None of the residents or business people in Manhattan are likely to bear any intentions of doing out with those two terrible beasts perched upon the penthouse terrace like ancient gargoyles. The two animals hardly lift a wing, but the memory of the Battle of New York is still too fresh in the minds of the citizens.

At least, the two animals remain still for a time. They do not flinch, do not move as the EMTs check over Tony and the stranger. They do not even lift their gaze as one of the medical technicians shakes his head over the blonde boy and the men bundle up the corpse to remove it. It is as if the creatures know the boy is dead, as if they _have_ known for some time.

When the EMS team moves to take Tony from the penthouse, the creatures go wild. The larger of the two shrieks in rage, loosing scream after scream in high pitches that rattle the windows along with Pepper’s nerves. It postures along with the slightly smaller beast near the windows. As the smaller scratches at the windows with the claws at the crooks of its wings, the other hops into flight and kicks out at the glass. Pepper holds her breath, wondering for a horrible instance just how much force the tempered glass can withstand and exactly what force these incredible beasts can dole out.

It is fortunate, then, that Bruce has the foresight then to cry out before the creatures can actually shatter the glass. “STOP!”

The EMTs freeze in place and glance to the physicist with wide eyes and ashen features. They know the monster that lurks within the innocuous seeming Bruce Banner; they have all been briefed by Bruce himself. They know to heed whatever warnings or orders the scientist might sling in a heated moment to keep from unleashing the rage lying just beneath his bumbling mannerisms and caring eyes.

“Look,” Bruce whispers, nodding towards the beasts beyond the glass.

True enough, as soon as the EMTs halted their motions to remove Tony from the penthouse, those feathered dragons ceased their own struggles. They stand motionlessly beyond the windows, both staring with intense, golden eyes. Their feathers remain on end, still bristling but softening with each passing second.

On a hunch, Bruce slowly kneels beside Tony’s supine form, testing the boundary gently but keeping his eyes locked firmly upon the larger of the two creatures. The dragon leans down, as though preparing once more to pounce. Its muscles gather beneath those gleaming, bristling feathers, but no more. He reaches out with an open, empty hand to Tony, but the creature still does not move. Only once Bruce places his palm upon Tony’s shoulder does the beast stir, curling its lips and snarling beyond the glass, posturing as though in defense of the fallen man. However, neither creature makes any move to leap, to attack.

Bruce nods, understanding now, and orders the EMTs, “Treat him here.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Steve runs to the penthouse as quickly as his enhanced muscles can carry him immediately after Jarvis relays the news to him. Tony is alive; it is almost inconceivable. However, Steve himself knows better than to judge the impossibility or improbability of anything in this world granted his own sordid history.

He bursts through the doors to the penthouse, a playful mock on the tip of his tongue, only to freeze in his tracks at the sight before him. Tony lies decked out in black leathers upon the floor, two EMTs working over him and assessing him, while two ebony, feathered dragons stand guard on the penthouse balcony. The larger of the two glares at him and opens its mighty, toothy mouth to let out a mighty warning shriek. It is a chilling, frightening shock to the system that kills any notion of humor almost instantly.

“Steve,” Pepper breathes to his left.

He glances to her and finds that Pepper and Bruce sit together on one of the lavish, black couches that furnish the room, side by side. She is pale but serene, her features schooled to a calm that Steve knows from experience to be a lie, a well-orchestrated mask of confidence. Neither Pepper nor the physicist take their eyes from the black beasts beyond the windows as Bruce slowly gestures to the spot beside him on the couch.

Steve holds his breath and takes a step to his left to join them, only to elicit a roar from both the creatures beyond the window. He stops, all his muscles going rigid and still.

“Easy, Steve,” Bruce croons gently from the couch. “Just keep moving slowly and try to ignore the unknown species outside the windows threatening to break them down.”

“Easy for you to say,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Bruce smirks nervously. “It’s just warning us.”

Steve shakes his head and tiptoes across the room to the couch. True enough, the beasts posture and threaten, baring sharp teeth and bristled feathers, but they do no more. They even seem to settle a bit as Steve sits beside Bruce. The larger of the two snaps at the smaller, but they both still and return their knowing, golden gaze to the inventor upon the floor and the EMTs tending to him.

“What happened?” Steve asks, unable to keep the questions from spilling out in a hush. “Where did he come from? What are they?”

Pepper shakes her head solemnly. “He just…. showed up.”

“What about those things?”

Bruce gives a small, half-hearted chuckle. “I told you. They’re not any species that fits description.”

“On the contrary,” Jarvis corrects politely. “The creatures do match fossil records of _Archaeopteryx,_ albeit of a vastly enlarged scale.”

“Don’t start with that again,” the physicist growls darkly, wagging his finger in warning at no one in particular.

For a long moment, the three sit in silence upon the couch, watching the winged beasts outside to keep from staring stupidly at Tony while the EMTs work. There are so many questions that each wish to ask, so many things that they _need_ to know. However, they each know that the only person who can give them any answers is Tony – a man who is supposed to be dead by all accounts.

Finally, the EMTs finish and leave Tony; one approaches the couch and speaks softly. “He’s exhausted and a bit dehydrated, but otherwise in pretty good health, all things considered.”

“Any idea what the thing on his head is?” Bruce dares inquire in a hushed breath.

The EMT shrugs. “We’re not sure. It could be a medical device for all we know, or an intentional alteration of his own design. Considering Miss Potts said that he was coherent before he lost consciousness, it’s not damaging to our knowledge, but we can’t be certain without internal imaging.”

“Which you can’t get without pissing off those…. things,” Bruce notes solemnly.

The EMT nods slowly. It is a daunting proposition. They cannot know what the device is, how deep it penetrates or what its function is without Tony conscious or without imaging. However, to remove Tony for such imaging would surely enrage the beasts beyond the windows. They cannot risk such an event. The creatures might break through the glass or worse – they might turn their rage upon innocent citizens below. It is not a risk worth the rewards.

“And the boy?” Pepper asks timidly. “Do we know who he is or what happened to him?”

The EMT shrugs. “We’re not sure. We’ll need a full autopsy to determine cause of death and fingerprinting to ID, but he’s been deceased for some time judging by core temp.”

Pepper feels her blood running impossibly colder as she whispers, “How long was he carrying a corpse?”

It is not necessarily a question any of them actually wish to have answered, yet all ponder it just the same.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Dr. Stephen Tate has lead a decidedly curious life. He has mused on occasion of dictating his memoirs to Nimue or having one of the crew pen them for him considering his clumsy, canine appendages and decidedly useless paws. However, reason always settles over him before such flights of fancy can consume his attention, and Dr. Tate recalls that such damning records of his life and his sins should never exist by any right. Even if he should, no one would ever read them or even care to, considering the trying nature of his existence.

Dr. Stephen Tate was not always a dog. Or, more appropriately, the consciousness of one Dr. Stephen Tate has not always occupied the body of a canine – a male Cavalier King Charles Spaniel once known as “Prince.” In truth, there had been a time when Dr. Tate would have been considered Prince’s owner or master, for however unusual that concept might seem in retrospect with regards to his current situation. He had inhabited a human body instead.

However, despite that and everything that has happened in Tate’s life, nothing could be more queer or more chilling than when he pauses to ask Stormsend if there has been any word of Harrow or Weatherlight and receives only a terse question in return.

“Why would I give a shit about her?”

 

xxx

xxxx

xxx

Hours pass. Long enough for Pepper, Bruce and Steve to oscillate between worry, boredom, and shame at the pettiness of the last sentiment several times over. In time, night settles over the City, bringing the quiet stillness of the dark while the streets twinkle below and stars above. Still, Tony has not yet awoken, and, still, those beasts linger beyond the windows, ever watching, ever waiting. It is enough to drive a person mad.

It is not until the shadows have reached their fullest that Tony finally stirs. She watches, her gut thick with worry as he slowly surfaces. He twitches in his sleep once, then twice. Pepper feels herself tensing, wanting nothing more than to rush to his side, but she stills herself, mindful of the beasts beyond the glass.

“Pep….” He groans in a voice thick from sleep that Pepper has not heard nor dreamed of hearing again for entirely too long.

She stiffens but dutifully retains her place upon the sofa when Bruce catches her hand. “I’m here.”

At the sound of her voice, Tony shoots upright, as though electrified. He turns and blinks, utterly stupefied. A warm, faint smile quirks the edges of her lips, but nothing more. She cannot dare offer anything more, yet. He stares, wide eyed and owlish at Steve, Bruce, and Pepper, but none of the three can bring themselves to move as the two, sleek, ebony beasts beyond the windows begin to rise up at the sight of him. The larger of the two cries shrilling, loud enough for the sound to pierce through the windows and into the room, but it is a different call, joyous and possessive in a way.

“Ras….” Tony breathes so faintly that Pepper is almost unsure she heard him.

He climbs to his feet awkwardly, scrambling to the balcony door before any of the others can utter a word, tearing the IV needle from his arm. The two monsters stand taller, their mouths opening in a seeming greeting of some sort. They appear…… happy, pleased almost as they jump about on nimble rear legs and powerful, crooked wings. When Tony reaches the glass, he freezes then, placing a single palm upon the cool surface. The smaller of the two beasts nuzzles the window between it and Tony’s hand, but the inventor does not move nor flinch. There, he lingers, still enough to worry even Bruce and Steve.

Finally, when the three can bear the silence no longer, Steve calls gently, “Tony?”

The man in question whips around. “Rabbit?”

Bruce furrows his brow in concern, “I don’t….. Tony?”

“Rabbit,” Tony asks once more. “Where is he?”

Bruce and Steve exchange a glance, but it is Pepper who takes it upon herself to answer. “Tony…. the boy you brought here…. the doctors think he was dead long before you got here.” Anguish flickers briefly across Tony’s features before Pepper can think to blurt out swiftly, “I’m so sorry, Tony.”

She takes a single step towards him before Bruce grabs her hand once more, whispering, “Pepper…”

That single step is enough to have started the two creatures into posturing defensively behind, glaring through the glass directly behind him and baring their yellowed teeth. She freezes, her blood running ice cold in her veins to see Tony flanked by the two veritable monsters. It is a curious image, considering the black leathers Tony wears along with his curiously plaited hair adorned by a single feather obviously plucked from one of the beasts. He seems horribly at place between them, as though stolen right from the pages of G.R.R. Martin.

“Tony, I’m sorry about…” Steve pauses, uncertain about the name. “Rabbit.” He looks uncertainly to the creatures upon the balcony. “Tony….. what’s going on?”

Tony glances over his shoulder to the creatures, just enough to still them before uttering, “Nothing good.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The flight is long, longer than Weatherlight cares to admit. Harrow had been lucky; he had caught a good tailwind and a few hour head start. She and Kai battle a stiff headwind, battering into them it seems, buffeting them bitterly. It is as though the whole world is conspiring against her to offer Harrow what little help it can to escape.

No matter. She is almost there. The lights of the city shine like a beacon in the night, calling her in.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is surprisingly easy to sneak through the guts and deep compartments of the _Nautilus_ when one stands no higher than fourteen inches at the shoulders, least of all in the midst of the commotion that consumes the attention of the rest of the crew. No one has even the slightest inclination of interest in an unassuming little spaniel, too focused on prepping the _Nautilus_ for what seems a battle considering the weapons and supplies toted about. Dr. Tate nimbly dodges the crew, keeping to the ductwork when possible as he descends to the bowels of the airship.

Dr. Tate threads a path he knows all too well to the hanger at the base of the vessel, following the steady stream of crew to a place he knows ought to be completely deserted now that Harrow is not among them. Instead, it is a crowded, chaotic place, flooded with personnel.

Before any of them can see him, Dr. Tate bolts. He does not know where to go, but the physician knows better than to be there, not when they are so clearly preparing for war.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Steve sits and listens calmly as Tony explains slowly and awkwardly. He jumps from subject to subject, as though his fractured memories still jar harshly against one another in a jumble. It matters not. Steve lets the inventor pour everything out in whatever order and at whatever pace he is comfortable with, while Pepper and Bruce question and inquire at each turn, pressing him for answers. Steve knows better; Bucky had once needed such breathing space after that first, daring rescue mission in the mountains that truly made him Captain America.

As Tony lunges between memories, the super soldier silently strings together something of a loose timeline. The crash. Tony’s silent, terrifying tomb of his own suit. His seeming rescue by the crew of the _Nautilus_. The excruciating purging of his own memories and his desperate struggle to cling to his own identity. His initial treatment and recovery on the airship at the hands of a doctor Steve knows not. The long months of tutelage under this Weatherlight’s watchful eye and his subsequent partnership with her. The wrongness of all this, the elaborate masquerade and conspiracy revolving about him that Tony still does not even seem entirely certain. Steve pieces this all together, but he says nothing and maintains a cautious expression, despite the heat rising steadily in his belly.

His pristine calm nearly shatters, though, when Tony speaks of the boy, Rabbit. In Steve’s day, many children went to war. He knew several. However, all of those boys had told him the same thing; that they willingly _chose_ that fate. Each and every one of those boys had been quite clear that they had come to kick Hitler’s tail by their own volition. Rabbit, by Tony’s indication, never had a choice, not from the moment that sleek beast scooped the child up, and, now, he lies cold and dead.

In time, Tony grows still and silent once more, as though there is nothing more to say. Yet, while Bruce and Pepper may believe so, Steve knows this is not the case. It is simply that the events are too raw for Tony to communicate, too new and too fresh of sores to truly prod. Steve knows this because it happened to him that first brisk day he woke from his icy slumber in the capable hands of SHIELD before bursting out into a futuristic world that was utterly alien to him.

The stillness is broken by Jarvis. “Incoming radar signal.” Tony jumps, but Jarvis goes on. “Return appears indicative of a third creature on approach.”

A single word falls from Tony’s lips as a hushed breath as he stares into the dark of the night still wreathing Stark Tower. “Weatherlight…..”

Before Tony can react, however, Steve snaps. He leaps to his feet and to the balcony doors, with Tony on his heels. He is fast, far faster than any normal man such as Tony Stark. The super soldier ducks between the doors as soon as they open, without regard for the two hulking beasts on the balcony.

“Jarvis, lock-out protocol!” Steve barks as the doors slam shut behind him as Tony reaches the doors.

The two beasts rear up, but their attention seems split. The larger of the two keeps its narrowed amber eyes trained upon Steve but holds its head cocked to the side, as though listening to something in the distance. The smaller of the two darts its massive head back and forth, swiveling swiftly to peer into the night and utter an odd, chattering sound.

Suddenly, a third beast bursts from the shadows, dropping onto the balcony with ease between the super soldier and the other two monsters, a masked rider perched upon its neck. Steve stiffens but holds his ground as the rider slips from the creature and lands neatly, soundlessly. The stranger crouches there, waiting for him to swing first.

Steve balls his fist; he will not disappoint.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

“STEVE, NO!” Tony cries out.

It is too late. Steve cannot hear him beyond the glass of the penthouse walls. He rushes Weatherlight where she stands. No amount of pounding on the windows or shouting can stop him as the super soldier swings a mighty fist at the slighter woman.

“Tony!” Pepper calls gently, almost warily.

“Jarvis, let me out!” Tony shouts, unable to tear his eyes from Weatherlight as she neatly side-steps what would otherwise be a crippling blow from Captain America.

The disembodied voice of Jarvis carefully explains, “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot. Captain Rogers has initiated lock-out protocol.”

Impotent rage flares in Tony a Weatherlight dodges another of Steve’s punches elegantly while the three _Archaeopteryx_ rear up and growl at the captain. This is _not_ the intended purpose of his lock-out protocol. Tony had designed the lock-out protocol following the events of Battle of New York to disable all lock access to any individual who might be compromised according to a complex series of parameters. He is not compromised.

As Steve continues to advance upon Weatherlight, Tony realizes that he has been compromised. He has spent months with her, fostering a strange dependency upon her. She has kept him under her thumb, willing slave to her whim under the guise of apprenticeship. She has come for him, loaded with nearly everything from her weapons case.

“No….”

However, then, he spies something curious. Weatherlight’s left hand. She holds it extended up and behind her to the _Archaeopteryx_. She is ordering them to remain at bay when Tony knows they could easily rend the super soldier with their razor sharp talons without hesitation – especially Ras – holding them back by stiff gesture and sheer force of will alone. She does not swing a single punch, nothing. She merely dances on nimble feet to remain just out of Steve’s range, holding her palm out to still them. The three beasts back each time the scout steps away from the super soldier, but their golden gaze remains fixed upon her hand, waiting her to let them go.

She does not attack, does not even pull her revolver loaded with bullets that Tony is certain would be deadly to even the great Steven Rogers.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It is absolutely infuriating. This stranger makes no move to engage, lifting not a muscle to attack. However, for whatever his speed and strength, Steve cannot seem to land a solid blow. The stranger simply leaps and dodges, holding out a damned hand as though it is a complex ballet they share, a pas de deux and not a fight.

However, when one of the creatures lets out a mighty roar, the stranger momentarily loses his or her focus, turning their golden helm to the black beasts. It is for but a split second, but that is more than enough time for Steve to draw close and land a driving blow to the stranger on the face of the helm. The stranger’s head snaps back as the helm cracks down the middle. The creatures hiss and rail. The stranger’s left hand drops to his or her head, and the largest of the three beasts swoops between them, pouncing upon Steve. Only once he is on the flat of his back, the massive monster pinning him to the ground and dripping saliva upon him, does Steve realize the monumental mistake he has made.

“RAS!” A female voice snaps in the night, followed by a series of trilled whistles.

The beast’s large head turns to the side, to the stranger, before turning his focus upon Steve below him. The creature leans close, bearing its razor sharp teeth. It leans so close that Steve feels the heat and stink of its breath – the raw stench of rotten fish. It growls so terribly loudly over him that Steve feels the sound reverberate within his own lungs, rattling along his ribs.

“Ras, back off,” the female orders curtly and firmly to the beast.

The monster – Ras – snaps one last time in Steve’s face before reluctantly shuffling back. Steve sits up slowly, wary of the massive beast lingering little more than feet away and bristling at being recalled from its intended kill. However, before he can even twitch a single finger, the stranger reaches to their firearm, drawing a massive revolver upon the soldier in the blink of an eye while the creatures bristle visibly behind her, all of their gleaming eyes fixed upon him.

“Do not move,” the woman cautions darkly in a voice that Steve feels he knows despite the gross improbability.

The stranger’s other hand reaches up to the cracked, golden cowl. Slowly, she peels the mask and helm from her head. The face beneath is one Steve impossibly knows, as pale, elegantly sculpted features stare back amid a sharp scowl. It is the woman from the monument, the woman with the quick fist and sharp tongue, the very same woman to purchase all the palladium. Instead of a shawl concealing her hair, her long, elaborate braids spill freely now about her face, one adorned with a single, black feather much like Tony’s.

“I have no wish to kill you,” the woman promises in a low hiss from behind the monstrous barrel of the revolver. “I only need speak with the man you know as Tony Stark.”

Steve dares glance over his shoulder swiftly to spy Tony standing at the doors, frozen in horror. Yet, there is recognition in Stark’s dark eyes. Tony knows this woman, this stranger with her quick reflexes, deadly manners, and feathered companions. The inventor wears the same dress as she, as though both are decked out in their leather uniforms for flight, for battle, for something that Steve cannot know.

“What do you want from him?” Steve growls, almost as menacingly as the beasts.

“I told you. I need to speak with him – and _only_ him,” she presses, taking a single step towards him, the gun still held with fierce determination and aimed directly at him. “Do not make me kill you, Captain, after you were so courteous to me once before.”

A tense moment spans between the two, interrupted only by the hushed whisper of feathers rustled by the breeze as Steve considers his options. If he releases the lock-out protocol, there is a good chance that this stranger may very well attempt to kill Stark and all of them. However, the soldier knows Bruce can stop her, can likely even stop the creatures when they come to protect her. Yet, that will solve nothing and leave more questions without a soul to answer them.

He concedes, grudgingly, extending a single hand to her. “Your firearm.”

In a practiced motion that might make even Natasha Romanov green with envy, the woman spins the revolver about on her finger, offering it to him. Steve gingerly takes the thing, surprised by its heft considering how easily the slender woman had wielded the thing. To his mounting shock, the woman continues by stripping herself of several rather dangerous looking blades, setting them down before the soldier with great care along with a quiver of arrows. She keeps only a finely carved ebony bow slung about her like an ancient warrior.

He raises a brow, and the woman breathes simply, “I came only to speak with him.”

“Sure came packing the heat for just a chat.”

She says nothing. Instead, the woman steps back, gesturing with a flick of her hand and a quick whistle to the beasts. They back away as well, obeying her small commands. Steve marvels ever so briefly at the sway the woman holds over the wild things, an obedience that Tony must also bear to have flown one of them to the Tower, his arms encumbered by the dead boy’s body.

The warrior and her beasts allow him to stand. The largest of the creatures opens its toothy jaws just a bit, curling its lips ever so slightly back. It is a small expression, yet it is enough for the warning to be quite clear to Steve. There is knowing to the monster’s golden gaze, as though it, too, is equally aware of the stalemate presented by the situation.

Steve turns his back to the odd quartet, walking stiffly back to the penthouse entry. For a moment, Steve wonders if she is following; her footsteps are almost inaudible. She has the bearing and gait of an assassin, equal to that of Natasha.

At the door, he pauses; she seems to sense his uncertainty. “I give you my word, I have not come to kill anyone.”

“And what does that mean? Your word?” Steve questions hotly.

“My honor is very important to me, Captain. I will not so easily tarnish it. You would do well to remember that.”

Steve frowns deeply, but, instead of speaking to her, he addresses Jarvis. “Cancel the lock-out, Jarvis.”

“Certainly, Captain Rogers,” the artificial intelligence announces as the locks upon the door click and the glass partitions slide apart.

She glides beside Rogers into the penthouse, moving with a cool, predatory grace. For the briefest of moments, uncertainty flickers through Tony’s features. Yet, upon seeing her, something akin to relief floods Tony’s face, something not too terribly distant from gladness tinged by a strange sentiment that Steve cannot accurately define or measure.

“Weatherlight….” He whispers her name as he steps closer, opening his arms as though to embrace her.

The woman sidesteps about Steve and approaches as well, a warm smile upon her face and her arms equally open. Tony’s own relief seems to grow at that as she closes the distance between them. Yet, at the last moment, as her left hand brushes the side of his neck, her right hand produces a small blade from nowhere and jabs it up to Tony’s neck in but fractions of a second. He stiffens, drawing back, but she holds him by a fierce grip upon his braids and presses the finely honed edge of the little knife to his flesh.

“If anyone so much as twitches a muscle, I will slit him from ear to ear,” the warrior hisses through her teeth. Those fierce eyes of hers meets Tony’s, and she orders brusquely, “Speak and speak quickly now. Where is Rabbit?”

Tony stares wildly, his eyes glossy with what might be the faintest of hints of tears. “Dead.”

“Did you kill him?” Weatherlight questions, letting the blade dig deeper until it draws a single bead of scarlet.

Tony grits his teeth to collect himself. “No.”

The woman nods slowly and carefully. “Did the Captain?”

Tony blinks; his throat works to force out a single word. “Yes.”

“He blamed you.” Her eyes narrow. “Did you know this?”

His sight drop low towards her hands, unable to spy the blade at his neck, before looking to his friends. Steve stands rigidly, his muscles tense and gathered to spring. Bruce’s skin is tinged green, but not in a sickly way. It is, instead, in a way that frightens Tony far more than the knife Weatherlight bears.

“I kind of figured he would.”

“The Captain sent me to kill you. He said you betrayed us to the Red Flag,” she accuses so sharply that it almost hurts.

“I am not a traitor.”

Weatherlight sniffs hotly and drops back, relinquishing her hold upon Tony. “That’s what I thought.” She shakes her head and tucks the little blade – nothing more than a glorified pigeon-sticker – back in her leather sleeve. “Thank you, Harrow, but you are relieved of your duties.”

Tony touches his fingers tentatively to the scratch at his neck. “How did you….?”

Weatherlight offers a tiny smirk, just a small curl of her lips. “Rabbit.” She gives another small shake of her head and lets out a grieved sigh. “I have known Rabbit since Gully brought him home. We grew up together. The Captain….” Her gaze flashes hotly to Tony, accusingly. “Rabbit would never betray us.” She turns on her heel. “I have to go.”

“The Red Flag isn’t what you think it is,” the inventor blurts out in a rush. “None of it is.”

“I gathered, Harrow.”

Tony looks down at the name. “Whatever this game is, you’re going to die if you go back.” When that fails to rouse her, he barks out, “He’ll kill you to keep you from getting in his way.”

She does not even look back. “Harrow, I have to return.”

“No, you don’t. Look.”

Pepper watches curiously as the woman gives pause and as Tony digs about in his leathers, reaching and prodding pockets meant for supplies and weapons. Instead, to her wonder, the inventor pulls an unmistakable device out. He draws a sharp breath at the sight but holds her tongue. It is an arc reactor, not unlike the one that Pepper knows occupies the socket in his chest even after all these years. The device glows the same, pale blue that the she remembers.

“I have the reactor,” Tony goes on, holding the thing out to the woman with one hand while gracing his chest with the other just above the reactor socket. “Without these, they have no power. Just flyers.” Weatherlight daintily touches the device at the rim, and the man continues, “He won’t risk any of them when he knows the Air Force will just pick them off one by one. Whatever his grand mission is, there is nothing he can do about it.”

Weatherlight lets out an awkwardly manic chuckle, one that sends shivers down even Bruce’s spine. “Oh, Harrow, you don’t understand, do you?” She taps the device on his temple. “The neural-link.”

Tony’s face fills with dread, the color draining visibly from his flesh. “No.”

“What?” Bruce queries.

Tony’s own hand quakes as it rises to touch the thing embedded in his head. “He planned this.” There is venom in his voice. “He _picked_ me. He brought me in. The neural-link. Everything I did, everything I saw, Nimue knows.” Weatherlight nods encouraging, and Tony shakes his head in horror. “They know how to build and install their own arc reactors.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Dr. Tate wriggles through the ventilation ducts, his tiny body squirming between wires and tubing. There are rare moments in which being trapped in the tiny body of a small canine is to his advantage – though they may be few and extremely far between. No man nor woman alive can fit into the same narrow spaces and tight squeezes through his nimble little form can maneuver. Even Rabbit does not know of such spaces, even for all his knowledge imparted by years of exploration of the veritable maze that comprises the vessel’s essential systems.

He climbs through the ship, cursing his canine body and useless paws as he does. Were Rabbit still there, the boy would take him on the most expedient route, scaling towering maintenance ladders to utterly heart-stopping heights with one arm slung about the physician’s small ribcage. Yet, Rabbit is regrettably not with him, and, to Dr. Tate’s very great dismay, he must ascend the vessel the long way.

It time, he reaches the tiny duct he knows leads beyond the bridge, a truly cramped tube that requires him to hunch down and creep – or rather shimmy – through. The space is small enough that the metal casings rub against his shoulders and hips enough to be painful even through his white and red fur when the bolts and nuts that hold the thing together catch upon his hide. He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw down to hold back the pathetic whining that his imperfect body so desperately wishes to loose instinctively. Dr. Tate knows such indulgences will only serve to reveal himself.

In another, distant life spent on two legs instead of four, Dr. Stephan Tate had rather enjoyed nature documentaries. He spent countless frivolous hours devouring mindless drivel in front of a television on a variety of subjects. A part of Tate’s mind recalls clips of wolves on the hunt, cunning, crafty things setting surprisingly clever and inescapable traps for their prey. He wonders if his canine form still harbors any of those predatory skills and instincts despite the centuries of selective breeding to craft a body and face more amenable to the fickle whims of courtiers and ladies in waiting. As his keen ears catch the sound of voices echoing in the duct, Tate silently hopes that there is some part of him that harbors those instincts.

His keen ears prick to the sound of Nimue’s delicate annunciation. “Sir, Engineering is reporting successful installation of all reactors.”

“Good,” the Captain’s voice rumbles. “Inform me when all preflight checks have been performed.”

“Certainly.”

There is a long pause in which Dr. Tate strains in the tube to hear something, anything; then, the voice of First Mate Nolan reaches him in the dark. “Reports indicate that Ker Karraje is in position and waiting further instruction.”

“Excellent,” the Captain practically purrs. “By nightfall tomorrow, the city will be ours.”

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xxx

The world tilts with a horrible, lurching sensation for Tony Stark at the terrifying notion that he has so freely given the arc reactor to a potentially hostile force. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, thumping so heavily as to feel a live, sentient thing trying to escape him. With arc reactors to power those trim crafts and the Leyden bullets, there is simply no telling what might happen.

“If I may interrupt,” Jarvis pipes up, shattering Stark’s private panic. “NOAA radar and satellite weather observation indicates a large weather anomaly approaching the city. 91 miles and closing.”

Bruce snatches a tablet from the table. “Show me.”

Tony jumps to peer over the physicist’s shoulder. Almost instantly, an image of the Eastern seaboard is drawn up on the tablet, overlaid with cloud patterns. One is different. It is larger, taller, more intense, and, to Tony and Bruce’s very great despair, that terrible convection tower appears to be moving almost perpendicular the direction of the smaller clouds, drifting unnaturally against the wind.

“Shit.”

“It’s them, isn’t it?” Bruce mutters.

Tony gives a distant nod. “Yeah.”

“At current speed, the epicenter of the anomaly will reach New York in three hours thirty-seven minutes,” Jarvis helpfully supplies.

“They’re moving fast,” Weatherlight observes quietly. “I have to go. _We_ have to go.” At the gaping expression from the others, she explains, “Harrow, he is coming for _us._ ”

“Stop calling him that,” Pepper snaps bitterly. “His name is Tony, not Harrow.”

A part of Tony stops at that, like a computer short-circuiting. He wants to correct Pepper, to tell her that yes, his name _is_ Harrow. Every fiber of his being shrieks at him that he is Harrow. He is Scout Harrow, under Scout Commander Stormsend, former apprentice to Scout Weatherlight, rider of Gulliver, and named by his Captain. Yet, he knows that is not the case – not entirely. He is Anthony “Tony” Edward Stark, son of Howard and Maria Stark, child prodigy, MIT graduate, billionaire, playboy industrialist and former arms dealer, Ironman.

Weatherlight declines to comment. “We have to draw them off now before your Air Force comes for them.”

“You want to save them?” Pepper is dumbfounded by the realization.

Tony rubs his temple, his head throbbing against the device implanted there, but Bruce mercifully whispers for him, “They don’t know any better, Pepper. They’ve been reprogrammed, brainwashed.”

 _Brainwashed._ The word grits painfully against Tony’s consciousness. He has not had time to truly accept what has happened to him. In truth, even though the long, solemn flight, Tony had not given it the consideration. Yet, that is what happened to him. The Captain purged him of his memories, stole everything from him, and reprogrammed him into something more suitable for use aboard the _Nautilus._

“He’s right,” Tony heaves. “They have no idea.”

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“Sir, we are within range.”

The Captain nods slowly, beaming as he does. He knows this is only a portion of his core processing. He is programmed to respond with human constructs of emotional nature. When the situation dictates a response of pleasure, his subroutines ensure that it is appropriately expressed and communicated in his facial features. It is a calculated symphony of mechanical precision to appropriately flush the synthetic polymer matrix that comprises his “skin” with fluids that act upon open chromatophores and constrict them to display the color as cephalopods do and raise servos beneath his cheeks to lift both his lips and general expression. Early versions of his expressional subroutines proved either too manic in appearance or too cold, yielding dramatically unpredictable and undesirable results with human crew. Decades of revision and recoding have adjusted these constructs to the most precise of balance. The result; a proud, happy expression keenly honed enough to fool any human man, woman, or child.

The Captain approaches the bridge. “Deploy.”

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Several crafts skim over the waters of the North Atlantic and into the confines of the New York Bay. They are small, small enough to be nearly indistinguishable from the radar signatures of the pleasure crafts and fishing vessels that traverse the calm murky waters. They cut between them without sound, without stirring a breeze. Yet, they do nothing to disguise or otherwise conceal themselves as they approach the city. Many skippers rush to their radios to call the Coast Guard, or whoever else might listen.

The crafts continue on, splitting into two factions at Manhattan Island’s southern tip before the greens of Battery Park. Half of them move to the left, along the Hudson, while the others proceed up the East River. They split off from one another the further North they move, surrounding the island before swooping up and off the waters to ascend. As they do, a small device drops from each, tumbling down to the streets below.

When those little devices touch down, the city goes dark.

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The lights snap out in Stark Tower, leaving only the palest of predawn glows by which to see. Yet, Harrow’s eyes almost instantly adjust to the dim. He is accustomed to such light from so many early morning runs with Gully.

“Jarvis?” Pepper calls to no one.

The artificial intelligence does not respond. Not a sound comes from the Tower about them. It is a preternatural silence that the woman has not heard perhaps ever. Not even the faint, barely audible hum of the ventilation systems meets her ears. There is no power, not hear and not anywhere.

Weatherlight swears under her breath. “They’re here already.”

Before another word can be uttered, a series of deafening booms meet their ears, sounding all around them. Pepper gasps, but Weatherlight and Tony merely flinch ever so slightly. All them reel about to spy great balls of fire and smoke churning up from various points in about the city. The creatures outside the windows shriek and flap their mighty, black wings, heads swiveling about in equal shock.

A sudden buzz greets them, and Bruce breathes a sigh of relief. The Tower is not crippled like the rest of the city by whatever electric attack has been issued. It is shielded from electromagnetic pulses by Tony’s command so many years ago during the planning process. The building has its own power plant in the base, an arc reactor of Tony’s own design as well. The building begins to come back to life around them as the reactor takes over for the loss of grid power and as systems reboot.

Sure enough, Jarvis’s prim, almost fussy voice announces as such. “Systems restarting.” There is a small pause before he continues, “Enemy craft have surrounded the city.”

“We have to evacuate,” Steve grunts, mindful of the countless innocents that had perished during the Battle of New York.

“All bridges and tunnels into and out of the city have been destroyed,” Jarvis intones without emotion.

“No….” Pepper whispers, both in sorrow for the lives she knows must have been lost so swiftly and in terror for the countless lives in jeopardy now. “There’s no way out.”

Weatherlight grabs Tony’s hand firmly. “We have to stop them.”

There is something about the small gesture that sends white hot flames licking through Pepper. This stranger – this Weatherlight – that has helped hold Tony captive for so long has no right to such contact. Yet Pepper says nothing when Tony squeezes back.

“What are they doing?” Steve calls to Jarvis.

“It appears as though they are waiting.”

Pepper bites her lip. “Tony, what are they waiting for?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “I don’t know….”

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It begins in Battery Park, rising from the depths of the great confluence of the East and Hudson Rivers as the metropolis rises from the trees of the park its self. While all eyes are turned in distraught terror to the scorched, fallen bridges and the crafts that have ensnared the city, no one notices the dripping, mechanical aberrations that climb from the waters and creep into the park. No one knows they are there until those cold, metal hands are upon them, clutching them tight and holding them close to press a metal device to their temple as though a lover’s embrace after years apart and a kiss upon their soft, pliant flesh.

Then, there is only white hot flames screaming through their brains as the silent stalkers from the water drop their quarry and continue on to the next.

Several moments later, when their victims arise once more stiff and uncertain as corpses from the grave, they are driven by one, simple, overriding need. They know only one purpose, the orders permeating through their every nerve and pulsing with every heartbeat. They find themselves well supplied to the task at hand, each bestowed a parcel of small, round devices.

MAKE MORE.

The humans turn on their own in kind as the machines spread forth.

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“I am receiving reports indicating hostile forces have made land in Battery Park and are advancing North into the City,” Jarvis announces.

The artificial intelligence brings up video images from the southern tip of Manhattan, displaying dripping, metal men swooping down the streets, scooping up the unwary and dropping their unconscious victims to the ground. Tony stares in horror. They are the same mechanical men that he spied amid the Red Flag. They each press a single hand to the side of each of their victims’ heads shortly before their victims convulse and collapse.

Weatherlight reels about on her heel to face Steve. “My weapon.”

Weatherlight’s voice leaves no room for questions as she extends a waiting hand to Steve. Yet, he holds her revolver close, reluctant know to return the weapon to this stranger he has only just met. For what can this small woman do with just a pistol, some arrows, and three dragons? Nothing against an army such as this. To return her weapon is to aid in her suicide against such odds.

“Give me my weapon,” she demands once more, stepping just a bit closer to the super soldier.

“What are you planning to do?” Steve inquires flatly.

Weatherlight gives a tiny smirk. “Isn’t it obvious?” When Steve does not even flinch, she breathes, “Mutiny.” She shifts her weight, drawing closer still, so close that he can feel the heat of her breath. “I will need my firearm.”

Reluctantly, Steve drops the oversized revolver into her waiting hand. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I cannot – _will not_ stand by idly,” Weatherlight growls through her teeth.

Steve levels a firm gaze upon her. “I’m not telling you to just stand by.”

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Steve swiftly suits up in less than three minutes. The uniform feels right on him, like a second skin. It has always felt so, ever since that first rescue in the mountains all those decades ago. It is reassuring before the glaring uncertainty of combat.

He pauses and furrows his brow. Tony still bears the leathers he came clad in, yet he stares at one of his own suits without moving, as though frozen with his back to Steve. After Tony’s disappearance, the suits had been brought to New York – all of them – and gathered in what is something of a communal gearing space. Any of the needs of any Avenger are there. Tony’s suits had been brought here out of respect for the man, without the intention of ever being used again, as though a tribute or even a private memorial of their very own. It had seemed fitting at the time and oddly fortunate just moments before.

For a moment, Steve mistakes this pause for reverence at the sight of his own creation. It has been some time since Tony and his suits have been together. Tony’s suit had been as important to the inventor as Steve’s uniform had been to him. He wonders if Tony had missed the suits, missed that strange world that makes sense only to Tony Stark, the incredible Ironman. However, when Steve draws just a hair closer to remind Tony that they have no time for this, he realizes that Tony’s is breathing in harsh, ragged gasps. He realizes then that he can smell the sweat and fear radiating from Tony.

“Tony…. we have to go…..”

The inventor shakes his head, trembling minutely. “I can’t.” When he looks back to Steve, his eyes are wet with unshed tears and his face has gone pale. “I can’t put it back on.”

Steve feels himself breaking slightly at the sight. Tony told him in his own, terse way of the time spent trapped in his own creation, of the endless hours spent wondering if it might become his own tomb. He cannot imagine that. Steve’s time in the ice had been mercifully silent and dreamless. The soldier had never suffered the same awareness that Tony had, not after splashing down in the frigid North Atlantic. There had been only a merciful jump, like a needle skipping along a record from one verse to the next with but a scant pause amounting to decades.

“It’s okay. Go with Weatherlight. Bring them down. We’ll take care of the city.”

Tony shakes his head. “No.” He stills himself, his features schooling. “I’ve got a better plan.”

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Dr. Stephen Tate watches and listens in horror as data is relayed from the city below. He hears the shrieks of terror and the report of gunfire broadcast upon the many displays, and his stomach turns as the primal, wolf borne anger flares within every nerve of his tiny, stunted body. This is _not_ what he came to the _Nautilus_ for.

However, in the back of his mind, there remains one, burning question; what can a dog do in the face of war? He bears an imperfect body even for a dog, too small to put up a fight, too tiny to bear any force. For a moment, Tate curses that he did not own a bigger, stronger dog at the time of his accident.

“Incoming hostiles,” Nimue announces formally.

The Captain turns to spy the jets advancing upon them. The so-called “Air Force” of a people so laughably shackled to their terrestrial bonds. He smirks dismissively at the inelegant aircraft that slice through the heavens like bullet; all speed, no maneuverability. They fire upon the ship, their missiles screaming through the clouds and impacting hard enough to rock even the _Nautilus._ Their engines rattle the hull of the mighty craft, but they must bank far and wide before bearing down on the airship once more.

“Scramble our aircraft. Clear the skies.”

“Sir,” one of the crew calls from his terminal.

The Captain dips his head. “What is it?”

“I have incoming radar signature. Appears to be our wayward flyers.”

Dr. Tate feels what might have been a smile upon human lips crack at his canine jowls. _Archaeopteryx_. It can be no other than Weatherlight, Harrow, and Rabbit, come back for them, come back to end this all.

“Sir,” Nimue interjects. “It appears to be Gulliver and Kai.”

Dr. Tate’s breath catches. It must be Weatherlight and Harrow, then.

The Captain’s voice holds none of the same joy that radiates through the physician. “Relay to Stormsend.”

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Scout Commander Stormsend has seen plenty of battles in his days and bears the scars of many tattooed across his chest and arms. Yet, this battle is different. The others have all been petty skirmishes and dogfights by compare to this. This is their magnum opus, the battle to end the war, and he will be damned if he is not going to do his part.

They are coming, he knows. Amid the jets and crafts that circle beyond the cloud cover of the vessel and the missiles blazing through the air, there are two flyers, stolen from his clutch. Kai and Gulliver. It is not known where Ras is. The great patriarch might be dead for all Stormsend knows, taken down by the ugly craft of the terrestrial men, but he somehow doubts this. Ras is much swifter, much stronger, and far more resourceful than his younger kin. If Kai and Gulliver live, Stormsend is almost certain Ras has survived as well.

He stares out, into the heavens, as the shadow of Gulliver bursts from the clouds about the _Nautilus_. He swoops from the clouds, ducking and weaving to avoid the missiles shrieking through the heavens. No one sits aside Gulliver; he is without rider. In his mighty talons, however, Stormsend spies a body of sorts – gleaming in gold and scarlet. It dangles limply from Gulliver’s hold, cradled by those sharp claws. Whoever it is, Gulliver is bringing him back to the nest.

Yet, there is no sign of Kai and Weatherlight. Stormsend knows that the traitorous bitch is out there somewhere on Kai. He knows her and her manners. She is sly and cunning as the _Archaeopteryx_ , and just as predictably unpredictable. She will be out there, armed and waiting for them to strike. As soon as they let their guard down to survey whatever fallen Gulliver has brought them, she will come bursting from the clouds to pounce upon them as a peregrine falcon might snatch its own prey from the sky. Stormsend knows this because it is precisely what he would do.

“What do you think?” Glade inquires, his voice low and respectful.

Stormsend strokes his chin, considering as Gulliver draws nearer, the body flopping with every beat of the creature’s wings. “It’s a trap.”

“Your orders?” Glade presses, rubbing the ruined stump of his arm to sate the phantom itch Stormsend knows he suffers.

“Rally the scouts. As soon as they touch down, I want all of you in the air. Bring me Weatherlight’s head.”

There is a flurry of motion as the scouts call to their flyers and mount them. As soon as Gulliver is close to the flight deck, they burst forth, pouring from the mouth of the deck like a murmuration of starlings. They circle and fan out, one singular goal driving them, swinging about Gulliver and snapping at the younger creature as they go. Gulliver shrieks in response but pushes forth to the deck. Only Stormsend remains, waiting as a viper in the grass for Gulliver to touch down and drop the man onto the flight deck with a heavy thunk.

Stormsend waits at his command post, even as the missiles continue to fly and the _Archaeopteryx_ streak through the clouds. He knows better than to approach. Instead, he stays his hand to study the being that Gulliver has deposited upon the deck. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, Gulliver makes a queer, chittering sound at what Stormsend now realizes is a suit of armor; the beast nudges at it with his head, as a mother might her progeny. Yet, the being does not move, does not budge. Gulliver lets out a plaintive whine and stares balefully at Stormsend with wide, sorrowed, golden eyes.

Only then, when the suit shows no sign of life, does Stormsend step down from the command post. He reaches down to his side, to the revolver at his hip. He fingers it for but a second before drawing his sidearm. Another time, the scout commander might have preferred something a little less forceful, a little more elegant. However, Stormsend knows that now is the time for efficiency, not finesse.

He steps cautiously, moving as a cat on the prowl. His footsteps offer not a sound, the practiced, careful motions of a master hunter. Years with the flyers have taught him well to hold their same predatory grace.

When the scout is upon the bulky armor, Gulliver chatters oddly. However, Stormsend ignores him, waving off the beast’s concern with his free hand as he drops to his knee. Still, Gulliver’s prize does not move, does not flinch. Before the scout dares reach a hand for the fallen, he brings up his revolver and aims it directly at the head. Then, the scout shoves at the armor’s shoulder, hard enough to jostle the heavy metal. It does not react. Stormsend drags the body by the shoulder plating, rolling the pliant but weighty body over and onto its back.

The mask is familiar to Stormsend. He knows the inhuman features and the smooth, golden cowl. Yet, the scout cannot place it accurately. He remembers standing over a figure such as this long ago and finding what would become the repulsive Harrow locked within. The rage flares within him as he looms over that ugly, expressionless helm and spies his own face reflected back in the golden sheen.

“Welcome home, asshole,” Stormsend snarls in a feral hiss as he pries the faceplate up.

The face beneath the mask is not the man that Stormsend knows to be Harrow. Instead, the features that stare back belong to another man entirely, a man with blonde hair, pale skin, and sharp eyes. He gasps in surprise but brings his pistol up to aim right in the center of the stranger’s head; yet Stormsend cannot pull the trigger. His mind screams at the wrongness of this, for he _does_ know this man. It is Steven Rogers. It is Captain America. He knows pictures of the man from a tattered magazine spread through the crew. The neural link sears at his temple in protest, but Stormsend knows this man.

“What’s the matter? Not who you were expecting?” Rogers asks mockingly.

Kai drops into the flight deck out of seemingly thin air with a mighty screech that would rival even the great Ras’s harsh vocalizations. The black beast rolls to the side, and Harrow swings out with his fist, delivering a solid, driving blow that knocks Stormsend onto the flat of his back with a loud grunt. Stars flare and flicker in his vision as Stormsend tumbles to the side and as Harrow scrambles from Kai’s neck. When he lands, Stormsend tastes blood in his mouth, the heavy tang of copper.

Rogers rises, leaving the suit behind him on the ground where it opened about him; he regards Harrow with a quick nod. “Friend of yours?”

“Something like that,” Harrow admits with a half-hearted shrug.

Stormsend grits his teeth against the thought of Harrow swaying the great Captain America to his cause, whatever it might be. Before the two men can approach, he hocks out the blood from his mouth and lets out a quick series of sharp, cutting whistles – the recall order. As soon as the sound leaves his lips, the flyers in the distance cry out in return, their screams echoing even at that distance.

Rogers purses his lips and frowns at the fallen scout. “I’m guessing that’s a bad sound.”

“Yeah,” Harrow breathes. “That’s a _very_ bad sound.”

Stormsend grins madly from ear to ear, mindful of precisely how deranged it must appear with his bloodied lips. Shadows circle and dive in the white mists that surround the _Nautilus_ , the flyers. They know to return to their nest with that call.

Rogers nods grimly. “You go. I’ve got this.”

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The skies have always been home to Weatherlight. Nowhere else has she ever felt safe, felt secure, and felt _right_ than astride one of those mighty creatures and cutting through the heavens. The _Archaeopteryx_ have never failed her, and she has always taken comfort in that fact, along with the feel of their thick muscles between her legs.

However, now, there is no comfort to be found in the skies.

She leans forward, and, together, they pitch down, falling from the heavens. Warm arms and hands grip tightly about her as the wind rushes past. He is unaccustomed to such maneuvers and buries his head in her feathered cowl as the ground comes hurtled towards them. No matter. Dr. Banner does not have to fly.

“Hold on!” she calls over the whistle of wind.

Weatherlight slams back on her heels, and Ras responds in kind with a solid, crushing blow of his wings. The flyer comes to a near screeching halt just feet above the ground, skimming over a jumbled police barricade of white and blue cars and flashing lights. He swoops over the officers retreating to the seeming safety of the barricade as they dive out of his way. He careens between busses and towards the fray, to the metal men who have caught an officer. His nimble feet pluck the mechanical men up and hurl them at their compatriots, freeing the officer.

She grips the feathers at the base of Ras’s skull hard and pulls, throwing her entire weight to the side. Ras balks, shrieking as he does, but he swing about in a tight, u-turn. The _Archaeopteryx_ growls bitterly as they cut back to the police barricade. There, she brings him down, lightly upon the tops of the cars. He swings his mighty head back and lets out a mighty roar that rattles the windows of the buildings about them and splits ears.

Dr. Banner slides down from Ras’s neck, trembling as he does. The officers raise their weapons, but the physicist ignores their aim. He scrambles down the car from Ras’s perch and rushes to the nearest officer.

“You have to get people off the streets,” he practically shouts in the officer’s face. The green begins to fill his eyes, and Bruce forces himself with no small amount of effort to yell before the beast takes over, “Go! We’ll hold them off!”

And, then, the world goes green.

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“Ground support is taking significant damage,” Nimue announces.

The screens display video directly from the streets of Manhattan, from the eyes of the mechanical men under the Captain’s command. They show Weatherlight and Ras, fighting like feral beasts on the streets together. The massive _Archaeopteryx_ swats at the army of the Red Flag while Weatherlight fires upon them with deadly accuracy from her bow, her arrows piercing them and pinning them to anything in her path. At their side, a great, green monster that stands taller than Ras even battles with his fists, beating upon the automatons and tearing them apart by sheer force.

“Redirect a squad. Take them out.”

Nimue flickers in the Captain’s vision, her form uncertain for but a microsecond’s hesitation, too tiny a timeframe for any human eye to observe. There is dissention in her. The Captain knows this. He can see it in the human face her original craftsman forged all those years ago. He reads it in the lines of code that govern Nimue.

“Nimue. Redirect.”

When she speaks, it is on a private channel in a short data burst meant only for the Captain and not any of the crew. _“Such action will result in an 87% chance of fatal injury to Weatherlight and a 96% of crippling injury. This also presents a 98% chance that the creature known as the Hulk turn on our personnel.”_

_“Disobeying direct orders is in fashion these days, I see.”_

Nimue flickers again, like a dying flame. _“This presents a conflict to my ethics subroutines.”_

_“Then, you have become a threat to the mission.”_

The Captain purges Nimue from the operating system with barely a further consideration, his own programmed consciousness taking Nimue’s place. She struggles, the tiny, shattered remnants of her processing attempting to regroup, but the Captain cuts her down like wheat. In fractions of a second, Nimue is gone and replaced.

He issues the order himself.

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The stranger in the black leathers with the braided hair and single, ebony feather proves to be a fierce opponent. He is fast and quick, surprising to Steve considering his bulk. He is a warrior, a soldier like Steve, molded and crafted to this task. His punches are strong and sure, as are Steve’s. However, he lacks Steve’s stamina and patience. The super soldier waits for his moment, and a well-placed kick sends the stranger tumbling backwards.

When he looks up, the burly man spits a hock of blood from his mouth and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Steve sighs heavily. “You get that from a movie or something?” The stranger climbs to his feet, and Steve shakes his head. “Stay down.”

“Nah. Not when I’ve got the advantage,” the stranger snarls.

The first of the winged beasts touches down behind Steve, a vicious looking creature with its teeth bared. The creature bellows right in Steve’s face defiantly. Fat droplets of spit splatter across Steve’s face, but he stands his ground. The super-soldier has faced worse in his days. The dragon like creature bristles visibly when the roar fails to arouse a reaction in the soldier, but Steve merely rears back and slugs the thing across the muzzle, stunning it long enough for the soldier to grab at its rider and drag him or her from the beast’s neck. Steve throws the rider at his original opponent.

“Doesn’t look like much of an advantage to me.”

The next flyers pour into the deck, circling about him. A trio of them touch down about him, their claws clicking lightly on the metal flooring. Others scramble in to take up positions above Steve in the many alcoves that surround them. Some still cling to the frame work of the space, hanging from the crooks of their wings and their mighty feet. They screech, roar, and growl, filling the space with a cacophony of wild song. Their riders stare down impassively while the beasts posture.

The stranger with the bloodied lip grins madly from ear to ear, “Kind of looks like the odds are leaning more and more to my favor.”

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Weatherlight has spent years in the company of monsters, raised amid them. Her early youth was spent in Amiens in quiet, private tutelage in a modest, antiquated home in the Henriville quartier of the city not far from the historic and lavish Maison de Jules Verne. While tourists filed silently through the preserved house and marveled at the cultivated illusion of closeness to the author, Weatherlight’s days were filled with lessons directly torn from the original, yellowed manuscripts. Her afternoons were occupied by training sessions, learning to spar, fight, and shoot like no other in a basement concealed from the world. This was until the tender age of six when it had been decided that, as the last Arronax, it was time for her to be whelped from this plush, gentle terrestrial world and introduced to the harsh, untamed skies. From then on, Weatherlight’s days were filled with ebony feathers and weapons of war.

Not even a life with the _Archaeopteryx_ could prepare Weatherlight for a battle at the side of Dr. Bruce Banner once he has shuffled off his pallid, weak, pathetic human flesh in favor of the monster beneath that Weatherlight knows is the “Hulk.” He is a force of nature. He is everything wild in the world distilled into a single form that knowns only one driving concept; fight. It is frightening to be in his presence, so near to the rage and power pouring off of the emerald giant thundering through the streets and mowing down his enemies, even by consideration of the woman who holds Ras’s attention.

This is not to say that Weatherlight and Ras are without merit. Her aim is sure, her arrows taking out the mechanical men with ease. Those that draw too near to her place upon the barricade of police cars are easily dispatched with any of her blades. Ras pounces upon the mechanical men and shreds them like a cat with a mouse, bellowing in pride at each kill before surging into the air and after the next one.

A blast from nowhere explodes against the oversized green creature, bursting in his face with white sparks of electric light. He smacks with a heavy palm at his bare chest, at the Leyden bullet firmly stuck to his flesh to batter the thing away and aside. Weatherlight’s eyes follow the trajectory back even as the monster roars in pain and boiling anger, back to one of the airships of the _Nautilus._ It hovers over the street effortlessly, the barrels of its guns still smoking from the charge shot at the Hulk.

He grins, the mad, toothy visage of a beast such as the _Archaeopteryx_ poised over an easy kill. The Hulk springs through the air, grabbing the craft and tearing it from the sky. The little craft tilts as he drags it down with his bulk, engines whining in protest. His thick fingers find purchase on the plating and rip away at the hull, tossing pieces aside with ease. The craft careens to the side, and the green creature lets go just before it comes crashing down to the street.

He lands at her side again, pummeling his own chest with his fits in a primal display.

Yet, their victory is short lived. When the Hulk and Weatherlight look about them, they are surrounded. Metal and flesh people line their streets, all under the sway of the Captain. They each hold a neural-link in their hands at the ready. Ras hisses and snarls at them, his feathers bristling as though to claim Weatherlight and, now, Dr. Banner in his other skin as his own. There are hundreds, too many to fight from the ground even with Ras and the Hulk, Weatherlight reasons easily, unless they slaughter the humans as well as the machines.

However, somewhere in the Hulk, Dr. Banner must know this as well, for he looks to Weatherlight and grunts out, “GO!”

She needs not be told twice. As those hundreds of feet thunder towards them in a great stampede, the scout whistles to Ras and runs, scrambling along the police cars. The _Archaeopteryx_ leaps into flight at her side with the reassuring whisper of his wings. She stretches out a hand and grabs the feathers at Ras’s neck before he rolls in the air, hauling her aboard. Then, they are in flight.

Weatherlight pauses to look over shoulder to the Hulk before another of the _Nautilus_ ’s craft descend upon her. The last she sees him, the green giant is swinging mighty blows and attempting to knock away the mechanical men and the enslaved humans as they swarm over him and climb for his head.

The scout knows she cannot stop now, not if Nemo gains command of Dr. Banner.

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Tony Stark follows the same path to the helm of the airship _Nautilus II_ that Harrow had just days ago with Rabbit. It twists unseen barbs in his heart to recall the fatal trip, but he cannot stop for such flights of fancy as grief. There is too much at stake now.

As he scales one of the slender ladders through a towering ventilation shaft, the vessel quakes and trembles about him. The deafening boom of the accompanying explosion comes but a microsecond after the initial tremor, like thunder in the night. It cracks through Tony, his eardrums throbbing from the sound amplified by the tube of the shaft about him. He is nearly knocked from the spindly ladder but catches himself just in time. As the ship continues to shudder and protest, Tony clings to the cold steel for dear life until it settles once more.

He swallows and steels himself, mindful that he cannot waste even a second.

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Steve fights valiantly, but he is no match for the twenty to thirty beasts that come for him, nor the seemingly countless riders in their black leathers and faceless, golden helms. If it were the humans alone, the super soldier knows he could take them with ease, but, for every blow he nearly delivers, there is a protective, hulking monster in ebony feathers to bat him aside. They swirl through the air in that cramped space, a veritable cyclone of feathers, teeth, and talons.

Then, he is knocked to the ground, battered and bruised from the beasts. His body aches as the super soldier struggles to put his feet beneath him once more before those monsters can come for him once more. They circle about him, closing in. They wreathe him, leaving him no quarters for escape.

Steve braces himself as his first opponent, the seeming commander of these warriors stalks towards him once more, a macabre smirk plastered upon his features. He knows a beaten man when he sees one; he is equally as aware as Steve is that this skirmish is over – _was_ over before it began. Steve sags as the burly stranger preens over him, his shoulder hunching and his hands sliding down his thighs in exhaustion.

“I told you,” the man croons, all too proud of himself and his warriors. “Odds were always in our favor.” Steve nods, barely a bob of his head, too tired to offer anything else, and the stranger’s smile only spreads further as he closes the last few strides between them. “You were just out of your league, old man.”

When the stranger leans over him to gloat, Steve moves in a flash, dropping all of his ruse. His deft fingers pluck a tiny device from the small pocket on the side of his thigh – a small electronic device no larger than a nickel, a token of the Black Widow. He sticks it to the stranger’s leg and shoves away hard enough to knock the bulky man back before the device can go off. When it does, there is only a tiny crackle in the air and the faintest of smells of ozone. Yet, for such a small thing, it packs a mighty punch. The stranger stiffens and convulses before dropping to the ground, still twitching faintly.

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The streets of New York City are difficult to navigate at best from the air. Weatherlight has often strolled the avenues and streets crisscrossing Manhattan Island at her leisure while on a supply run to the city. The grid is simply enough to learn, however that is not the problem. Now, she must dodge buildings and signs with Ras, mindful of his wide wingspan and the clearance necessary to both fly between the skyscrapers and bank through turns – all with several of the _Nautilus_ ’s crafts hot on her heels, the whine of their engines screaming in her ears. They are fast, far faster than Ras or any other of the _Archaeopteryx_ , but they lose speed with every turn, so long as Weatherlight is sure that Ras can clear the turn as well.

She know of nowhere to go, nowhere to run. There are plenty of places for her to run and hide, but nowhere safe for Ras. Even if there was, such cowardly tactics do not hold any place in her mind or heart.

At the next turn, Weatherlight slams down hard on her heels, dragging Ras up by sheer force even as they sweep through an intersection choked with stopped cars, taxis, and buses. He shrieks in his rage but brings himself up with several stiff beats of his wings. Together, they climb from street level, pitching towards the nearest skyscraper – luxury apartments, she supposes. There, Ras stops, his clawed feet and crooked wings finding purchase on what little there is on the sleek surface.

There, they wait for but the space of a single breath until the craft pass them by. Only once they have all cleared the intersection does Weatherlight pull back on Ras. He complies instantly, releasing his grip from the building and giving chase eagerly.

Weatherlight takes careful aim with her revolver, takes a breath, fires, and exhales; her aim is dead on. The Leyden bullet strikes the last of the craft with a burst of light. The craft instantly goes dead and dark. The engines wind down, and the craft slowly pitches forward, to the streets. Weatherlight does not even stop to watch the thing as it crashes through abandoned vehicles before coming to a grinding halt.

The other craft are back on her in an instant, and the scout knows the gambit will not work again. The turn back towards the island interior, to the safety of the huddled buildings and the murky hope of reaching some safe haven.

Then, Ras cries out beneath Weatherlight, faltering as he does. They have been hit. He gives a strange, staccato beat of his wings, labored in a way. His right wing moves awkwardly, almost unresponsively. Then, Ras gives out beneath her, and they are falling, plummeting to the ground. She does not scream, does not panic even as her heart races in her chest. Neither will solve anything as the unforgiving pavement draws closer and closer. Weatherlight only does what she can, gripping Ras’s feathers and leaning with all her weight to try to pull up, to forcibly drag her mount out of this seeming free fall.

At the last second before impact, Ras gathers himself enough to give one, last beat with his left wing before coming down entirely. Together, they crash to the street, slamming into the blacktop with enough force that it knocks the wind from Weatherlight’s lungs and breaks something in Ras with a terrible crack. He shrieks in pain as they continue to tumble down the road, and Weatherlight is torn from his back. She lands hard, hard enough to jar her bones, but, in time, they roll to a stop together.

As soon as Weatherlight comes to a stop, she scrambles to her feet, gritting her teeth against the blossoming pain from the fall. Her lungs and ribs protest the movement sharply, but that is nothing compared to the sharp pangs in her heart when she spies Ras. The flyer lies broken and fallen in the street, struggling to right himself. His right wing drags limply beside him.

“Ras….”

Mindless of the loss of cover or her own injuries, Weatherlight bolts to his side, her hands up. The beast swings his massive head to her and bares his teeth in a feral display until he seems to realize that she is no threat approaching. Then, his expression softens, and he dips his head enough for the scout to reach up and stroke his feathered face reassuringly.

She looks to the damaged wing, to the misshapen form and the broken feathers. A bloody hole pierces through the wing, dripping slowly from whatever projectile has struck him – a through and through injury. The other damage must have occurred on impact when Ras could not draw in his wing to protect himself. There will be no escape for Ras, not now that he has been so effectively crippled from flight.

She touches the radio in her ear. “Harrow, Rogers, I’m down.” When there comes no response, Weatherlight calls again in futility. “Harrow?”

As the whine of the craft meets her ears again, faint as they circle about, Weatherlight reaches for her bow but finds that the ebony bow has snapped in the fall. She drops it without a second thought and draws her revolver once more, checking her remaining ammunition expertly. She only has six rounds left, not nearly enough to make a difference, but she will not leave him.

“So, this is it, Ras?” she asks softly of the creature beside her. “Our last stand?”

He makes a strange cooing sound, as though responding to her question before raising his hackles at the ship.

Weatherlight smiles to herself, gives his neck a warm pat, and takes aim. “Let’s make it count.”

Then, to her surprise, the click of a pistol being cocked meets her ears from the right. She looks to her side and spies a tall, olive skinned man in blue and black uniform. He has his firearm drawn and aimed as well. A police officer, a terrestrial human, perhaps one of the last people Weatherlight has ever expected or been taught to expect to come to her aid.

“Use a hand, miss?” he asks cordially and almost mockingly.

Weatherlight grits her teeth. “You don’t have to do this.” When the man does not falter, she gives a tiny shake of her head and turns her aim on him without taking her eyes from the craft bearing down upon them. “Get out of here.”

“With all due respect, fuck that noise.”

Weatherlight feels herself tearing inside. “You’ll die.”

The officer shrugs. “Goes with the job.”

There is something that lifts in her heart slightly at the bravery of the unknown officer, but she stows it away for now. “Get ready.”

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When Nimue flickers and vanishes, Dr. Tate must clench his teeth down to keep from allowing his animal skin to make any involuntary sounds of anguish that surprise even he. He does not know why it pains him so to see her disappear before his eyes. She is, after all, a computer program of sorts, and artificial intelligence. Yet, her presence has been a comfort to him for all these years, a quiet, accepting companion, and it grieves him to know somewhere in his mind that Nimue would never cut out like that unless _someone_ cut her out.

The rage swells within him, a tidal wave crashing down and sweeping away any sound reason. All thoughts of concealment and safety flee the tiny, frail canine body. He reaches out with his teeth and claws – woefully undersized though they might be – and tear at anything they find. Wires, cables and conduits all pull and stretch under his pull, but only a few, insignificant seeming wires snap. He clamps down with his small jaws upon a bundle of cables and rears back in the duct, tearing mindlessly at the only outlet for his frustration. It takes a moment, but, eventually, the connection gives, sending Dr. Tate tumbling back on himself.

The _Nautilus_ gives a great, heave and shudders almost painfully beneath Tate’s dainty paws. He blinks, dumbfounded for a moment at the sheer luck of it as startled cries call out from the bridge. Dr. Tate could bark with joy.

“Navigation and ballast systems are down, Captain,” one of the officers shouts as the _Nautilus_ begins to slowly list.

Then, Dr. Tate’s heart falls when he hears the Captain’s order. “It appears we have a rat somewhere in our midst. Find him.”

He holds his breath, but, then, hands rip at the many grates and vents to the duct in which he hides Dr. Tate scrambles, struggling to get his paws under him. Those damnable appendages do not grip the slick metal of the vents well, and it takes him a terrifying, embarrassing moment to right himself before a hand swings into the space he once occupied. Dr. Tate wriggles and squirms away, surging forward blindly into a tangle of wires of tubes to escape the prying hands that reach for him.

Suddenly, he is stuck, tangled amid the veritable guts of the vessel. He kicks and writhes, but there is no going forward. There is only going back, but that hardly seems an option when Dr. Tate glances over his shoulder to the hands still clawing for him. One gets too close, and the animal instinct takes Dr. Tate, blinding him momentarily – long enough for his teeth to clamp down upon the hand and find the coppery tang of blood filling his mouth and nostrils.

The hand jerks back as its owner cries out, but another takes its place. When Dr. Tate bites this hand, he finds not the pallid, soft and yielding flesh of a human, but something else entirely. There is fluid, yes, but no blood. Instead, it seems to be nothing more than saline tainted with metal and oil. Dr. Tate hardly has time to consider this notion when the hand wrenches him violently from the duct. When that inhuman hand holds him up by his teeth, Dr. Tate blinks; it is the Captain.

“Mutiny does not suit you, Dr. Tate,” the Captain snarls in his snout.

“PUT THE DOG DOWN!”

The Captain turns slowly, his grip squeezing more painfully upon Dr. Tate’s muzzle and garnering a yelp. However, the Captain cares not for the creature in his hand. He has eyes only for the man standing at the door to the bridge, his revolver drawn and a Leyden bullet already chambered.

The Captain smiles all too sweetly, and he purrs, “Ah, Scout Harrow. Welcome back.”

Harrow does not flinch. “I said, ‘Put the dog down.’”

“Gladly.”

The Captain’s arm moves swiftly, hurling Dr. Tate aside until his pathetic little body crashes into one of the control decks and the world goes black.

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The other warriors are on Rogers in a heartbeat. They are strong, yes, but he is stronger. They merely outnumber and outgun him – vastly. He fights, valiantly so, but Rogers is too careful, too cautious to inflict too much damage upon these strangers who remind him too painfully of the Winter Soldier, of Bucky.

One of them catches Rogers from a blindspot, knocking Steve to the ground and jamming a revolver in his face. When the super-soldier looks up, he finds himself looking up to a fierce, red haired man bearing a revolver like Weatherlight’s with his one hand. Yet, he hardly has eyes for the one armed warrior in ebony; instead, Steve stares up at the wide mouth of the barrel, his heart hammering in his chest at the sight. He has been shot before, yes, but he has never taken a direct round to the face. Nor has Steve ever experienced the electric kiss of a Leyden bullet. A distant part of his mind wonders if either would be a fatal wound to a creature such as he as Steve draws what might very well be his last breath.

However, before the thing can be fired, a voice calls from behind him, “STOP!”

The warrior looks up, giving enough pause for Steve to glance over his shoulder. Behind him, the stranger who had first attacked him is clambering to his feet. He staggers unevenly, gripping his head with one hand above the device at his temple.

“Stop,” the man grunts once more, blinking slowly as though to compose himself. “Stand down, Glade.”

The red-head – Glade – freezes stiffly but keeps his revolver trained on Steve. “No, Stormsend. He fights with tha traitor, Harrow.”

“No….” Stormsend whispers cautiously, looking down to Steve with what seems to be wonder now. “No. He is not the enemy.” When Glade lifts his gaze from Steve to consider the weight of Stormsend’s words, Steve nods imploringly, and Stormsend continues carefully, “Harrow…. Is not the enemy.”

Steve gives another slow nod. “We’re not what you’d been brought to believe.”

“No….. no, you’re not.” Stormsend licks his lips and tenderly touches the neural-link at his head. “I remember. Weatherlight….” He hisses at the contact with the device, drawing his fingers back as though burnt. “This is wrong.”

“You’ve been duped, all of you,” Steve presses, mindful of the well-armed and trained warriors about him. “The Captain has led you to believe that Stark – that _Harrow_ – and Weatherlight are traitors, but he is the traitor. He has hijacked your minds, your memories.” Steve swallows the uncomfortable lump forming in his throat as the thought of Bucky bubbles up in his mind, unbidden. “This battle…. his last battle, it is going to be a slaughter.”

“Lies,” one of the warriors barks.

“No,” Stormsend snaps back. “It’s not.” He closes his eyes almost reverently. “I remember.”

Another volley from the fighter jets that scream past sends the _Nautilus_ shuddering. The ship lurches abruptly and begins to list. The deck begins to tilt and drop oddly, minutely enough that most might not notice save for the mild inner-ear imbalance, but Steve knows better. The ship is coming down, slowly but surely, around them.

Steve looks to the rest of the warriors. “Please. You have to believe me.”

Yet the others do not yield.

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The nameless officer at her side fires off round after at the ship as it comes careening down the street towards them, but Weatherlight knows better than to waste ammunition so freely. His shots are of little impact anyway. They are but flies or pebbles weighted against the thick, metal skin of the craft.

Weatherlight has but six shots, and she cannot spare even one. She holds her breath, aims, and waits. Ras bristles at her side, but the scout pays him little heed. When the craft is almost upon them, Weatherlight draws a deep breath, and, as she exhales, the scout squeezes the trigger. The shot is true and sure, impacting against one of the engines; the engine stutters upon impact but regains its self.

“No….”

However, as the craft crosses the last intersection before them, before the crew can fire upon Weatherlight and the Samaritan officer, a green blur bursts from the street. The Hulk. It slams into the craft, thick, meaty mitts of hands tearing away at the elegant contraption. The craft hangs in the air for but a heartbeat before it comes crashing down under the weight of the Hulk. He bears down upon it still, swatting off the mechanical men that still cling to him and shattering them.

That emerald face turns to her, a wide, wicked grin plastered from ear to ear. He makes a sound, feral and guttural, but it is no human tone. It is a triumphant sound Weatherlight knows from the _Archaeopteryx_ with which she has spent nearly her entire life.

Weatherlight feels her lips move, curling to a faint smile; when she speaks, it is to murmur, “Thank you.”

Yet, there is no such time for gratitude when Ras screeches at her side. Weatherlight, the Hulk, and the officer glance about and find themselves surrounded. Yet, this time, it is by humans alone, each one bearing a neural-link at their temple and holding another of the devices in their hand at the ready. Ras screams and rages, but Weatherlight knows this is to be it. There is no escaping without killing an innocent.

She looks to the Hulk and smiles once more, wistfully. “It was a good run.” The Hulk roars in her ear, but the scout merely places a tender hand upon the mighty creature’s forearm, stilling him. “It is alright now.” Weatherlight turns her gaze to the sky before the mindless drones of humans can advance. “Good luck, Harrow.”

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Harrow – Tony – lunges as soon as the Captain tosses Dr. Tate aside, mindless of the yelp and the abrupt stillness of the dog. There is no time to assess the damage, and, even if there were, the inventor barely knows how to treat human injury, let alone canine. There will be time to tend to the little spaniel later, or so he hopes.

The Captain is expecting him. He dodges neatly as Harrow charges, but battle has tempered Tony Stark in ways that Harrow knows now. He moves swiftly, neatly. When he fires the revolver, his shots are close – so very close, yet the Captain is faster. The Captain is a mechanical creation, propelled through time and space by the precision calculations of probability that can only be derived from an artificial intelligence, as opposed to the humble and flawed estimates of the man that is Harrow or Tony. Tony saves a round in the revolver, just in case he should get a better chance.

Harrow punches at the Captain, Happy’s voice whispering in the back of his mind instructions and chiding his failings, but it matters not. Once more, his fist rings out against the blow, and the Captain seems hardly phased by the strike.

He changes tactics, jumping for the Captain, drawing a blade from his black leathers. The Captain slips back and away from him, but, as Marin’s and Glade’s sharp tutelage returns to him, Harrow finds himself moving by instinct, stepping gracefully and easily inward. The blade slashes through the air, through soft and impeccable silk and something thicker and flesh-like. Yet, it is not flesh. The material that yields as skin and muscle might does not bleed, does not leak anything, not even oil as Harrow might have imagined.

The inventor circles about the Captain, his arms coming up to grab his once commander by the neck. He drags the finely honed edge of the blade against the synthetic flesh. Natasha croons in the back of his mind to dig – _dig_ – through the skin and muscle, to hack away at the underlying structure and leave no chance of survival. Yet, his hands are not met by the warm splash of blood, nor any other fluid, nor does the blade penetrate deeply at all. The mechanics beneath the human-like covering do not give beneath the knife.

The Captain snatches the blade from Harrow’s hand and crushes the edge simply before throwing the thing aside; he whips about and goes on the attack. When the Captain swings, his blows are driving and powerful. Harrow ducks and dips about them, but the Captain is fast, landing a sharp uppercut to Harrow’s jaw. The punch rings through his skull as Harrow’s body hurtles through the air. He soars over the consoles and lands on the other side; his revolver goes flying, landing with a thud before skittering across the floor. Stars flicker and flash through Tony’s vision from the blow and the subsequent landing, startling him.

The Captain is upon him in a heartbeat, looming over the fallen Harrow. “Do you know the penalty for mutiny, Scout Harrow?”

Harrow rolls and reaches out for his revolver, but it is too far. The Captain surges forward, kicking Harrow in his chest. His ribs shriek from the driving blow as something cracks there. A part of Harrow distantly curses himself as he curls inwardly, reflexively. He should have known better than to go toe to toe with a mechanical contraption such as the Captain without protection. It had been foolish and impulsive, but that has always been his manner.

The Captain reaches down and catches Harrow by the collar of his black leathers, hoisting him up. Harrow kicks out with his legs. His booted foot catches the Captain square in the chest, but the Captain hardly flinches. Meanwhile, Harrow’s foot sings with agony from striking such an unyielding object. He grunts, gritting his teeth against the self-inflicted pain.

The Captain purses his lips to a macabre grin made all the worse by Harrow’s knowledge that it is not a human grin. “Death, of course.”

And, with that, the Captain tosses Harrow through the nearest window as effortlessly as he had tossed Dr. Tate, and, then, Harrow is falling from the heavens once more. All around him, the world falls apart, shattered by the unlikely circumstances and unseen orchestration that have brought him to this point. The skies explode with missile fire from the fighter jets and return volley from the sleek crafts of the _Nautilus_. Debris tumbles about him, cinders sparkling and dying upon the wind that rips at Harrow’s eyes.

And, then, he falls no more as heavy shadows slam down upon him. For a terrifying moment, Harrow thinks he has died, that his heart has inexplicably just stopped beating. Then, lights flicker to life all about him, displays and data before his vision fills with the familiar holographic detail of the Ironman suit’s HUD booting up. Yet the horror that had plagued Harrow at the thought of just putting on the suit once more is gone, burned away by the need to fight, to save his friends and the countless innocents that stand in the crossfire. His body moves of its own accord before Harrow can truly know what he is doing, driving the suit on to soar through the clouds and circle back to the airship, his heart alighting in a way he had forgotten.

Jarvis practically purrs in his ears. “Welcome back, sir.”

Harrow has not the time to consider the gross implications of this. “Yeah, save the party for later.” He cranes his head up, back to the shattered window at the bridge. “We’ve still got work to do.”

The artificial intelligence does not comment, but Harrow knows Jarvis remains there, awaiting his commands and needs. It is a reassuring presence that does not intrude upon his thoughts, does not invade as Nimue had. It bolsters Harrow enough to steel his nerves for the task at hand as they rocket back to the bridge.

The Ironman suit crashes back through the windows, roaring towards the Captain and slamming the mechanical man to the ground. The thud from the inhuman body is tremendous, felt even through the hefty armor of the Ironman suit.

“Miss me?”

The Captain leaps for him, but, this time, Harrow is better prepared, better equipped. Where his muscles were once limited, they are now augmented by the suit and the mechanics hewn by his own hands, lovingly assembled and tailored to his body. Harrow catches the Captain, gripping him surely with the scarlet and gold gauntlets.

“I see,” the Captain mutters under his breath, digging in harder.

Harrow grips tighter with the gauntlets as the Captain rears back, attempting to drag him off balance. Yet, the Ironman suit holds. He jerks forward, pulling the Captain close before striking out. The punch is quick and small, but, with the full force of the suit behind him, the blow sends the Captain reeling.

However, without a human mind and nervous system to be dazed by such a blow, the Captain is back upon him in no time flat, returning the punch in kind. Harrow is knocked back by him, stumbling away, but not far, not this time. The inventor throws himself back, allowing the Captain to tackle him and rolling his body back. He flips himself over the Captain, crushing the thing to the ground.

Something animalistic takes Harrow when he sees the advantage, something dark. He cannot stop himself, not now, not when he is faced with the thing that has caused so much damage, so much suffering. He reaches down and grabs the Captain by the neck and squeezes.

The Captain’s face twists into a feral expression. “Do it.” Harrow pauses as the Captain continues, his voice unimpeded by the crush that would have otherwise collapsed a human trachea. “Do it, Harrow.” The Captain squirms under him. “The crew will still follow the mission.”

The repulsors fire in the gauntlets with hardly a thought as Harrow growls, “Fuck the mission.”

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A meaty paw takes Weatherlight’s hand in a way that makes her feel abruptly small and fragile. She does not need to look to know it is Dr. Banner. Yet, it is comforting in a way. Weatherlight allows herself this minute reassurance as the mindless drones thunder towards them even as she does not let herself look away.

Just inches from her, the strangers freeze, stiffening as though electrified. The nearest to her twitches, a hand still reaching desperately and clawing through the air. Then, to her very great wonder, they fall, all of them, collapsing bonelessly to the ground.

The officer beside her asks, “What the hell?”

Weatherlight just smiles. “Harrow.”

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To Steve’s very great astonishment, the other warriors fall to the deck before another fight can break out between them. Then, slowly, they begin to rise, blinking owlishly at each other and staring in what might be fright or horror. Steve cannot tell. Yet, they do not raise a weapon to him, make no move to attack.

The ship drops, and Steve looks to Stormsend. “We’ve got to evacuate the ship.”

Stormsend nods. “Right. Scouts, you heard the man.”

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Harrow kneels there for a long moment as the crew falls around him, still staring down at the still, twitching form of the Captain, breathing heavily. The repulsors have burned through the neck, revealing an intricate construction of wires, tubes, and other parts before scorching through them, severing the head from the body. The eyes roll back and forth sightlessly while the mouth gapes as a fish out of water. The body kicks once, then once more, and stills.

Then, the airship gives another sickeningly lurch. Harrow’s stomach flops from the abrupt drop in altitude. Around him the crew is rising from whatever has taken stricken them so strangely and so uniformly. They move immediately, rushing away as klaxon alarms begin to sound in the airship and red lights flare around him.

Harrow stares down at the fallen Captain beneath him. Everything has come to this, and, yet, he is still no closer to understanding. He has no idea why the Captain would do any of this after over a hundred years of successful secrecy.

Tony Stark – not Harrow – reaches down and plucks the head from the floor before rising.

Only to be knocked down once more by a veritable freight train. He tumbles to the side and is tackled again by First Mate Nolan. Tony knows he should not be surprised, but he is. Of course the Captain would have other assistance in keeping the ruse afloat and the crew in line. It is of little consequence when Nolan smashes the Ironman helm, sending even the HUD stuttering and flickering.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Nolan bellows, ripping at the face plate. “What you’ve ruined.”

Without thought, Tony swings his fist and slams the Captain’s head down upon Nolan’s. The First Mate falls to the side, freeing Tony enough to scramble away. The airship tilts once more, and Tony nearly tanks into the filigreed floor. He catches himself but still drops to his knees. Nolan charges him once more, but, now, Tony spies his lost revolver. Before he can stop himself, Weatherlight’s training takes him by force, and Tony snatches the revolver, spins around and fires the last shot. His aim is dead on, and Nolan collapses lifelessly.

The radio crackles in Tony’s ear; it is Steve. “Stark, the ship’s coming down. Is it clear?”

Tony jerks back to life as Jarvis answers for him. “The airship is fully evacuated.”

Tony looks to the side of the bridge, to the prone form of Dr. Tate. “Almost.” He scoops up the dog and cradles it close to the Captain’s head before whispering to the pup, “Can’t have you dying without telling her, you dumb mutt.”

Then, they are flying once more, away from the ruins of lies.

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As thousands of formerly enslaved New Yorkers right themselves, millions of eyes turn skyward to watch the once glorious airship _Nautilus_ come crashing down. Yet, that that is not the only sight to be had, as dozens of black, winged creatures streak through the heavens, bearing queer riders while an erstwhile deceased Ironman reclaims the skies. It is strangely anticlimactic for the City, but, in a way, that is alright.

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xxxxx

xxx

The flight is exhilarating beyond compare now that Steve can enjoy it. The flyers are agile and elegant in the air, cutting though the sky like a knife. It is freedom pure and simple, and, suddenly, the super soldier can understand why Tony had been so keen to protect this. Stormsend handles the beast beneath them with ease, flowing together through the skies gently enough for the unseasoned Steve to ride with limited effort and direct them to the top of the Tower. They touch down simply and easily, cramming the Tower with the black beasts and strangers who appear a bit lost and unsettled.

Steve glances about wildly, but Tony is not among those to flee the collapsing _Nautilus_. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spies Ironman streaking through the sky the Tower before landing with a practiced ease amid the flyers. The creatures snap and snarl until the face plate is lifted, revealing Tony’s pale face.

Steve rushes towards him, but Tony stops him by blurting out swiftly, “Weatherlight and Ras?”

“I don’t know….” He admits.

Tony drops something to the ground that Steve recognizes grimly as a severed robotic head before stuffing something much more organic into the super-soldiers hands and ordering, “Get him a vet.”

And, then, he is gone once more.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Tony finds her along a battle scarred street, kneeling beside Ras and humming softly as she strokes the _Archaeopteryx_ ’s long neck with tender hands as the Hulk sulks nearby. For a moment, as Tony lands neatly behind her, he almost thinks that Ras has died, judging from the grotesque damage to his wing. Yet, as Tony approaches, Ras stiffens and lifts his lips enough to growl low and throaty at Tony despite the agony he must suffer.

Weatherlight does not even look over her shoulder as she asks, “Will you see to Ras?”

“Why? Planning on leaving?”

She offers a soft chuff. “I do not belong here. Neither do they.” Weatherlight glances back at him with solemn eyes. “I am the last Arronax. My life has been devoted to protecting them.”

Tony knows she is not speaking about the flyers alone, and something twists in his heart entirely unrelated to the arc reactor of the damage taken during his fight with the Captain. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” She rises steadily, smoothing her leathers. “But we cannot stay here.”

It falls from his lips before he can stop it. “He loves you, you know.” She raises a brow, and Tony spills everything. “Tate. He’s hurt. He needs you.”

Weatherlight’s lip twitches, but she whistles still, Kai’s call. “Take care of him for me.” Weatherlight leans in and places a chaste kiss upon Tony’s cheek at the edge of the helm. “Thank you, Harrow.”

Kai is there before Tony knows it, and Weatherlight leaps into the air, grasping a tuft of feathers as he passes. In a smooth motion, she hauls herself up to Kai’s neck as the beast streaks past. Then, they are climbing to the heavens. He watches as Kai and Weatherlight soar back to the Tower, circles as the others take to the wing as well.

And, then, they are gone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Is this the end? No. Of course not. You know Tony isn't the kind to just let all of this go without understanding. TBC....


End file.
